


Any Small Assistance

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Breathplay, Community: sherlockkink, M/M, corsets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Watson, are you wearing a corset?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Small Assistance

**Author's Note:**

> Started for this kink meme prompt: _WHATEVER, I DON'T CARE, JUST LET THERE BE SMEXING AND CORSETS,_ finished as a fill for another corset prompt on part four.

Watson always sits remarkably upright, a decided contrast to Holmes' own sprawls and curls. However, lately Watson's back has been straight and tight even when he slides down in his chair, and Holmes finds that very curious. It is entirely possible Watson has strained some muscle, and sitting tightly controlled is less painful than slouching, but Holmes cannot remember when such an injury could have occurred in the past week or so, which would mean Watson must have gotten it without him present, which means Watson has been doing things of interest without him…

It is very curious.

It remains speculation, of course, until several days later he sees a paper sticking out of Watson's waistcoat pocket, and not recognizing it, automatically snatches it from him. Despite Watson's protests, it proves to be nothing more interesting than an invitation to tea from some Miss Morstan. There are many Misses in Watson's life, and Holmes knows how long they tend to last. He bats away Watson's hands and returns it to his pocket with a teasing smile, and his fingers notice the unfamiliarly firm ridge beneath Watson's waistcoat before his mind does. He pauses, and tilts his head thoughtfully, fingers still pressed against Watson's side, who is eying him with apprehension. Holmes narrows his eyes as he prods Watson with a slightly firmer finger, and is rewarded with an unforgiving sensation that is not flesh. Suspicions mounting, he says, "Watson, what," only to be interrupted by Watson springing up and pulling the note out again to toss it in the fireplace, while nattering on about it being of no consequence.

Holmes rises and walks to Watson, pausing in front of him, his gaze drawing Watson's, who breathes out a wary "Holmes…" and he reaches forward to tug Watson's shirt tails out of his trousers. Watson's voice goes up a shocked octave as Holmes pulls up shirt and waistcoat to reveal something canvas and boned and…

"Watson, are you wearing a corset?"

Watson is looking everywhere but him before he clears his throat. "Yes," he rasps, intent on the ceiling. Holmes stares at him for a long moment.

"You," he says finally, "are very strange." Watson's mouth drops open, and Holmes can feel the corners of his mouth turning up. Watson blushes, and then sputters,

"Really Holmes. It's not as though it's a ladies' corset!" Holmes merely raises an eyebrow before turning and returning to his chair, leaving Watson mussed and flushing at the mantle, attempting to continue his explanation while stuffing his shirt back in. "It's a medical corset, Holmes, for my back. Favoring my leg twists my whole back out of line, and puts unusual strain on the muscles, which is part of the reason I've had such a bad time with it of late." He is trying too hard to be professional and reasonable about it, but his face remains red, and Holmes cannot keep the smirk off his face. Watson finally runs out of words, and seeing Holmes' grin firmly in place, mutters to himself and throws a pillow at him. Holmes dodges the missile and assumes that is the end of it.

He finds that he can recognize when Watson is wearing the corset now, which seems to be most days, but he refrains from remarking on it. If his eyes are lingering a little longer on the curve of Watson's torso, well, who is going to notice?

*

He is unprepared then, when several weeks later, the morning after a particularly long, chilly, and fruitless night, Watson pokes his head around the edge of the door. "Holmes," and he hesitates, a trait Holmes has never seen a sign of in Watson. "Holmes, would you do me a favor?"

"Most likely," he replies.

"Well," Watson says, only to be struck dumb again. They blink at each other in uncomfortable silence, and then Watson takes a deep breath and plows on, stepping into the doorway, shirtless, with a bundle of pale cloth and lacing in one hand. "Since you already know about the damn thing, would you give me a hand getting it on this morning? Normally it's no trouble, but I must have slept funny last night, and when it's hardest to get on happens to be when I need it the most, and, and" as his voice runs down under Holmes' flabbergasted gaze.

There is an awkward silence before Watson speaks again, his face red, hands playing mindlessly with the dangling strings. "Never mind," he says, and turns away, and Holmes manages to force his words out before he leaves.

"No," he says, "Come here. If I can offer some small assistance … I was simply, uh, unprepared." He clears his throat. "How shall we go about this?"

The look Watson gives him is startling in its gratefulness. "It's mainly that I cannot bend my arm back far enough to tighten it properly or evenly. Here, let me just …" and he is wrapping the thing about him, covering that burnished skin with stark fabric. Holmes is surprised to find himself missing it. Watson is hooking together the front busk, and as he reaches for the top his arm stops, accompanied by a wince as the muscles protest. Holmes steps forward, his hands already resting on cotton and metal as he speaks.

"Let me."

Watson blows out a breath in irritation. "It's damned frustrating at times," he tells Holmes, who makes a noncommittal noise. "Turn," Holmes commands.

Watson faces away from him, the corset framing the line of his spine, crossing it with lacing. "Start at the bottom," he tells Holmes, "but shift between the top and bottom once it gets started. Normally I'd be able to just go from the middle," and Holmes isn't really paying attention to his words, because he's concentrating on pulling at the cords, tugging until they are taunt as violin strings, careful to keep his fingers away from the tantalizing strip of flesh. "That's enough," Watson tells him, and his voice startles Holmes into stepping back.

He's never had much to do with females, or their undergarments, but this somehow looks unlike the few he has seen, and seeing the still sun darkened skin of Watson's shoulders flexing above the line of banding as he rolls them back, settling, Holmes is struck with a sudden, insane desire to sweep his hands up the panels of the back lacing to cover that skin, and he is shocked speechless by his own thoughts for a moment. Watson tosses a casual "Thanks," over his shoulder and returns to his own room for the rest of his clothes.

"Yes," Holmes says, a long moment after he has left.

*

When Watson announces his intention to retire for the night, Holmes hesitates only a moment before he speaks. "Would you care for any assistance?" Watson turns to him, eyebrow raised in surprise, but also, Holmes thinks, slightly pleased.

"Yes," he says slowly. "That would be welcome. It really is a bit of a devil to get on and off, though I've gotten rather good at it." Holmes follows him to his room, where Watson strips jacket and waistcoat and suspenders and finally, finally, undoes the buttons of his cuffs and shrugs out of his shirt to reveal the corset clasped around him. He turns, presenting his back to Holmes, and Holmes cannot help running a finger down the double line of metal grommets before he begins loosening the crossing cords. As the widening gap reveals flesh, each inch contrasting sharply with the pale cotton, Holmes finds himself fighting the desire to press a line of kisses down that back, to suck the knob of each vertebra, to leave some mark of ownership. He swallows hard and stills the trembling of his hands, his breath unnaturally loud in his ears, but Watson hasn't turned to question him, hasn't said a word, hasn't moved. When Watson is unlaced and free of the device once more, Holmes bids him a hasty goodnight and retreat to his own bedroom.

His hand slides down to press against the problem that arose during his assistance to Watson, and he catches the moan in his throat before it can become sound. This, this will not do at all. His hands are impatient with the fastening of his trousers, foiled by each button. By the time they manage to curl around his cock, he is panting with want. He strokes himself, fingers trailing from base to tip, sliding in the precome already oozing from his slit, and his mind is full of Watson, of Watson's hands and Watson's spine, and what the base of his neck might taste like, and what sounds he might make as Holmes buggers him through the bed, and then his mind is full of nothing but blankness. Later, he will lie back and stare at the ceiling, and wonder from what strange place such thoughts had come.

*

All has returned to normal, or at least what passes for normal between them, by the time Watson needs a helping hand again. He appears in the doorway, eyes rimmed by black hollows that would tell Holmes of nightmares even if he hadn't heard the cries last night, and Holmes does not even need to ask. "Turn around," he says, and Watson sighs in relief and exhaustion as he complies. Holmes sets aside the desire to taste that sliver of skin, right there; sets aside the thought of making Watson moan; takes a firm hold of his reactions and begins to lace the corset up, slowly, with almost steady hands. Watson's head is tilted forward, and he is breathing deeply, muscles relaxed. As Holmes snugs the final set of strings, Watson shifts his shoulders, settling into the confines of the corset, and Holmes is lost. His hands fall to Watson's waist, roughened fingers catching on the fabric, and his mouth is on Watson's skin, hot and nipping at the boundary of flesh and fabric, and it tastes like nothing he could have imagined.

"Holmes," Watson says his voice breathy, his breathing suddenly quick and shallow. "Holmes. What are you …" and as Holmes places a particularly sucking bite on the knob of his vertebra, "oh. Yes," he whispers, and "Please," asking for something he didn't even know he wanted, "please, Holmes." Holmes buries his face between Watson's shoulder blades, breath hot and damp on his skin, and thinks there is no more beautiful sound than Watson gasping beneath him. And that there is a simple way to ensure he continues to do so. Dexterous fingers tug and pull at the lacing, and Watson gasps out another "Holmes," like a blessing. "It's too tight," he says between gasps, "I can hardly breathe."

"Yes," Holmes breathes into the curve of his neck, "that's rather the point," and Watson shudders at the sound of Holmes' voice, rough and warm with desire, and moans beneath him. Holmes pushes him to the bed, Watson falling to his knees before it, body bent over the edge, Holmes shucking his trousers above him. Holmes' fingers are clever and long, brushing spots within him that make his vision blur, or maybe that is the lack of oxygen, and Watson concentrates on full breaths, doomed to failure as Homes mouths his back, his neck, his ear, and oh, nipping at his lobe as he shoves in, and Watson cries out, lost in sensation. He can feel the curling heat of orgasm rising up through him, a race against the graying of the world, heart and lungs fluttering in sympathy, and he comes bare fractions of a second before he passes out, his last conscious impression Holmes shuddering against him.


End file.
